


The Gamble

by virusq



Category: Firefly, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Bloodline - Claudia Gray
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Bets & Wagers, Corellia, Corellians, Coronet City, Fluff, Gen, M/M, No Sex, Racing, Scoundrels, inappropriate use of Mandarin, kor vella, ladies being sneaky, ships, star wars galaxies nods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virusq/pseuds/virusq
Summary: Malcolm Reynolds hates a lot of things -- cowards, liars, politicians, that gross fruit that smells like cheese that Kaylee occasionally convinces him to transport across the galaxy, the weird pilling on his pant legs after laundry day -- but mostly Corellians. Which, frankly, is a sad thing to realize when you’re on Corellia, surrounded by Corellians, looking for the most well known Corellian, so you can enter a famous Corellian race.





	The Gamble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Malcolm Reynolds hates a lot of things -- cowards, liars, politicians, that gross fruit that smells like cheese that Kaylee occasionally convinces him to transport across the galaxy, the weird pilling on his pant legs after laundry day -- but mostly Corellians. Which, frankly, is a sad thing to realize when you’re on Corellia, surrounded by Corellians, looking for the most well known Corellian, so you can enter a famous Corellian race.

_Zhēn dǎoméi. _

As much as he hates it, he fits right into the general swagger that Kor Vella emanates. The denizens carry themselves with a confidence -- not too bright as to beg for a theft but rightfully erect and generally tolerable -- years after the Empire has been driven out of the city. No more stiff black uniforms and stupid hats. No more AT-ST patrols. It’s a welcome change and he finds himself -- and everyone around him -- breathing just a little bit deeper because of it. 

Just as many tight purses around the shuttleport, though. You couldn’t pay him to come here. Except, you know, on special occasions. Like this one.

You see, Captain Mal Reynolds is in a tiny bit of a predicament. Nothing he can’t handle, mind you, it’s just that a wiser man realizes when it’s time to tap in a partner. And that’s why he’s here. That’s the only reason he’s here. A wise man stacks the deck when the enemy’s got a skifter.

“Is Cap’n Solo nice?" The perpetually chipper voice of his mechanic pipes in beside him. Kaylee’s dark hair curls around her ears and rests on the shoulders of her battered brown overalls. A bit of grease smudges her neck under her ear and he’s managed to go three days without pointing it out to her. Call it an exercise in patience.

Mal shoots her a look that is mostly an exercise in expressions: his immediate answer is ‘yes’, but then there was that time his copilot threw him in a dumpster for cheating at cards while he sat back and laughed. Also: _smuggler_. He bobs his head from shoulder to shoulder, pursing his lips. He _hasn’t_ shot him yet. “Cuddly as a rancor.”

Kaylee frowns as they continue to walk up the dusty corridor toward _Rikkh’s Retreat_. “Baby rancor are awful cute. I saw one in a holo once. A twi’lek lady was teaching him manners.”

“Well, this one’s about 40 klicks past toddlin’ and ain’t never had a nice twi’lek lady teach him manners,” Mal explains, justifying his metaphor to the young mechanic.

“Oh.” She twists her lip in contemplation, adjusting her mental image. “But he’ll help us, right? He’ll help us get _Serenity_ back?”

Mal flashes Kaylee his most confident boyish grin, which, honestly, gets lost in the sea of Corellian faces. “You bet.”

+

“I really don’t see the point in all this, sir,” Greer Sonnel states flatly over an untouched drink. The fizz has worn down and left her with a bright green concoction suitable for children. The bartender droid awarded it to complement her companion, despite it being about 10 years and two smoked casks shy of anything she’d actually order. Her eyes haven’t stopped scanning the room since they sat down.

Han Solo likes that about her -- the ability to remain assertive and focused when everyone else is distracted. She’s a damn fine pilot and an excellent wingman, on and off the course. He also likes the face she makes every time someone buys her a drink. Greer Sonnel is too good for them and he knows it. That’s also why he’s touring her around the galaxy, taking odd jobs, and testing her temperament: he wants to show her off before Leia steals her away.

“I told you,” he leans back on his barstool and takes a swig of his lomin ale, “It’s customary to buy your best pilot a drink before a big race.”

Greer’s eyes narrow to slits. “You’re meeting someone here and you don’t want Senator Organa to know.”

Han chokes on his drink, the foam on the glass splashing over the rim and onto his hand. “What? That’s absurd. I have no secrets--”

“One,” she ticks off the point on her finger, “I’ve been flying with you for over a year and you’ve never bought me a drink. Two: Senator Organa is in Coronet City and you intentionally landed us in Kor Vella. Three: you’ve been checking the reflection behind the barkeep since you sat down. Tell me who you’re expecting to open fire, sir, or this is where we part ways.” 

Han gapes. Greer takes his mug and steals a brazen swig. It’s pretty impressive for such a petite human. Also: that’s _his_ drink.

Han frowns, then smiles wide and starts to open his mouth to ease her suspicion but Greer flashes him _the eyebrow_ and his boyish charm withers on the spot. Instead, he nervously thumbs a burn in the table’s polished surface and studies her. “Okay,” he starts, drawing in a long stalling breath, “You’re right. I’m meeting someone. Old pal named Reynolds. Complete scoundrel.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t want to draw any attention to it. You know. For Leia.” Of all the words one could use to describe Han Solo, _sheepish_ isn’t one of them. Despite all his attempts to remain rugged and carefree, one little name always manages to plunge him into the paternal depths of thoughtful words and apologies. “And Ben.”

Greer relents and slides his drink back to him. Her features soften around the edges but still betray her weary suspicion. “Alright. Describe this scoundrel.”

Han perks up. “Human. Tallish? Short dark hair. A grin a mile wide and a blaster that could take out a TIE.”

Greer nods, contemplatively. “Wears pants that are way too tight?”

Han cocks his head to the side. “How did you know?”

+

“Han Solo!” A voice booms as a hand clamps down on Han’s right shoulder. “ _Lǎo péngyǒu, nǐ kànqǐlái hěnyǒu jīngshén._ ”

Han’s eyes widen and he flashes Greer a look of betrayal before standing up and embracing the human newcomer. It’d be warm and inviting if they weren’t both patting each other down for hidden blasters. 

Kaylee hops into the booth next to Greer and points at her drink excitedly. “Ooh, what’s that?”

Greer’s brows knit in curiousity. Han hadn’t mentioned a girl. She slides the offensive syrup over to the newcomer. “Yours.”

Kaylee presses her lips to a brightly colored straw and eagerly samples the concoction. A smile spreads across her face. “Awh, cap’n! These people aren’t filthy rancor at all!”

“Gosh, you say the sweetest things.” Greer smiles voraciously and shifts her attention from the madwoman beside her to fix Han and Mal with a stare. “Shall I shoot them, sir?”

With surprising effort, Han extracts himself from Mal’s hug and waves his hands in a lowering motion to his dark haired companion, implying she lay low with the firepower. He then flashes Malcolm Reynolds a charming smile and insists he take a seat. With a practiced move, Mal sweeps his long brown coat behind him and eases into the booth across from Han.

“Mal, this is Greer Sonnel. She’s one of the youngest pilots I’ve ever considered competition,” Han casually brags. 

Mal inclines his head in a respectful manner toward Greer. He gestures his hand, palm up, toward Kaylee. “This is Kaylee Frye, my mechanic and ship-whisperer.”

Kaylee raises her hand and wiggles her fingers at Han and Greer, still happily preoccupied with her drink. Greer crosses her arms and nods politely.

“So.” Han flags the bartender droid down for two more lomin ale and seriously considers downing both of them before passing them to Greer and Mal respectively. “I hear you’ve lost your ship.”

“Not precisely.” Mal winces, an expression that almost exactly mirror’s Han’s when Greer catches him in a lie. The more he talks, the more Greer is amused by their similarities. “See, I reckoned I could make the stars a better place by transporting some rodian workers from one rock to another. A bit of charity. Maybe I needed a legitimate reason to dock on Kalarba _without_ cargo, maybe I didn’t. Point being I was to deliver these fine folk from point A to point B.”

“But they were slaves,” Kaylee sighs mournfully.

“But they were slaves,” Mal repeats with a bit less emphasis. “We got halfway to our destination and realized we couldn’t with a right conscious deliver them into another term of indentured servitude. So we, uh, lost them at a fueling depot outside of Ando.”

“And when you landed in Kalarba, your ship was searched and impounded,” Han finishes, nodding grimly. He frowns as the math doesn’t quite add up. “You’re a long way from Kalarba. Where’s the ship now?”

Mal points a finger in the air, emphasising an unstated fact, while taking a long pull from his ale. He wipes the foam from his mouth with his wrist and sets the point of his finger on the table, dramatically.

“No,” Han whispers, leaning in conspiratorially. “Here?”

“Indeed.” Mal nods his head slowly, agreeing with the collective surprise. “Imagine my face when I discovered that _my ship_ is listed as a prize in your race.”

Han leans back quickly, pointing two index fingers at his own chest, eyes wide. “ _My_ race?”

“The _Serenity_ is listed in the third place junk pool for the _Han Solo 5000_ ,” Kaylee explains cheerfully.

“First off,” Han leans back in, placing an elbow on the table and leveling a finger at Kaylee, “It’s the _Cormorant 5K_ \-- the _Han Solo 5000_ was rejected. Second,” he turns to Mal, “I’m sure this is some big misunderstanding. We can just pull the ship from the pool and you can be on your way.”

“Great!” Mal claps his hands on his thighs and reclines in his seat, beaming.

Greer Sonnel chokes on her ale. “No. No that’s not how it works, sir.”

All eyes turn to Greer, demanding a quick resolution. 

“The ships in third place pool were generously donated by local law enforcement. If you issue a retraction for a -- no offence -- third class mid-bulk transport, you’re going to have every security bureau and pirate organization on the Corellian Run asking why. The only real option is to,” she swallows and her voice grows noticeably less confident, “win third place.”

“Oh.” Han mutters and the collective group slouches dejectedly in the booth. Kaylee slumps on the table, arms folded around her empty glass. Mal picks at a tear in the plastithread upholstery.

Greer bites her lip. “Could you get a new ship?” 

Mal scoffs and Kaylee answers for him. “ _Serenity’s_ family. Can’t just replace family.”

Mal sits up, renewed by a dangerous idea. “Han, we’re good friends. Close, right?”

Han glares at him from across the table, knowing exactly where this line of shavit is heading. 

“You loan me the _Fal_ \--”

“No.”

“That’s fair,” Mal agrees without question, sinking back into his slouch.

“I can throw the race,” Greer states quietly. All eyes return to the young pilot, her back straight, eyes fixated on her drink. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t need the win.” 

Han blinks at her, seriously considering her statement and what the loss would mean to her. He knows what the races mean to her. He knows that she’s sick and any race could be her last. He could _never_ ask that of her. He purses his lips and turns back to Mal. “Tell me more about your intentions with the _Falcon_.”

Greer shakes her head adamantly. She looks up at Han, searching for approval of her scheme, then turns to Kaylee. “Do you think we could rig an electronics malfunction so it’s more believable?”

Kaylee scans the ceiling, mulling the request over. “Yes. Definitely. I have a few ideas.”

“Now, hang on a minute,” Mal interjects, sensing Han’s plummet into unease at the proposition, “You don’t owe us nothin’. Han and me, we go way back. I’d strap him up with EMPs myself if this were him in the pilot’s seat but you --”

Han protests and Greer cuts them both off, confidently. “I can do this. I want to do this.”

Han glares at Mal through knit eyebrows, firing imaginary turbolasers at the man for being so easily persuaded to jeopardize his pilot’s well being. Also: for volunteering to _strap bombs to his chair_. His gaze softens as it shifts to Greer Sonnel. “Sonnel --”

“I’m doing this,” she interrupts again. “Consider it a gift. For your ship.”

Kaylee beams. “I like her!”

+

Kaylee insists on giving Greer’s RZ-1 A-wing interceptor a once-over before letting her enter the race. Greer’s territorial but relaxes about it when Kaylee asks the ship permission to inspect it after Greer agrees. She snorts, amused by the concept of treating a ship like a family pet, but stifles the dismissive behavior and pats the purple nose of the ship lovingly. 

The bubbly human climbs up and around the ship, squeezing into spaces designed for droids, and making generous cooing noises as she discovers the beast. Eventually, she hops out of the astromech’s hatch and lands the eight foot fall with lothcat grace. She dusts her palms off on her dirty overalls and plants her hands on her hips.

“How’s it look?” Greer isn’t quite sure how much longer they can inspect the ship without raising suspicions from the other racers. No one should suspect her of sabotaging her own ship for a race and that provides her an infinitesimal level of comfort.

“Gorgeous,” Kaylee responds happily.

“Um. Thanks.” Greer scratches her head, the dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. “How does it look for the um... mods?”

“Oh!” Kaylee claps her hands together. “Mods. Yes. Piece of cake.” She gives Greer two confident thumbs up and a dazzling smile. “Hard part’s gonna be convincing your onboard systems not to report the shift in electrical currents until you’re ready.”

“Anything I can do to help? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You can hand me that spanner!” 

Greer helps Kaylee back up into the A-Wing and hands her various tools as the woman’s delicate hand reaches out requesting them. As Kaylee works quickly through the vehicle’s wires and fuses, Greer can’t help but wonder how such a talented young woman got stuck on a mid-size freighter on the outer rim.

“You’re really good at this,” Greer starts, “have you ever considered settling down on a core world? Working with ARC shipyards R&D?”

“Sometimes,” Kaylee’s voice returns, a tinny muffled sound somewhere in the engine compartment, “but _Serenity’s_ my girl and the cap’n’s good people. I like where I’m at. Feels safe. Nice.” A dusty set of dark curls pops out of the cockpit. “You?”

Greer takes a moment to search the tool cart for a ‘you’ before realizing the mechanic is asking her if she’s happy in her job. “Me?”

“Yeah. Are you home?” 

Kaylee disappears into the ship again while Greer processes the question. Their situations are only topically similar. Greer Sonnel has a ship of her own, a career in racing, a chronic illness, a -- “Yeah,” she finds herself saying despite the trip down memory lane, “I really like where I’m at.”

“Great!” A series of loud metallic clangs erupt from the ship before Kaylee dismounts. She returns the tools from her pockets to the tool chest and smiles at Greer. “You’re all set. When you’re ready for the water works, tap the rain deflector button.”

“That’s it?” Greer’s stomach lurches at the notion that her entire racing career could collapse due to a faulty set of windshield wipers.

“Well. No.” The chipper woman presses her lips into a thin line and lurches forward awkwardly, wrapping her arms around Greer in an all encompassing hug. Greer stiffens instantly, eyes widening at the unexpected display of affection. “Thank you.”

Greer relaxes about as much as a Pamarthan pilot can manage just hours before intentionally sacrificing first place in a race. She pats Kaylee’s back in awkward reciprocation, the ribbed fabric of her overalls crunching beneath her palm. A smile gentles her expression. “No problem.”

“One more thing,” Kaylee adds, voice muffled by her cheeks pressing against Greer’s shoulder.

“Oh?”

“How do ya’ll place a bet?”

+

The _Cormorant 5K_ may not be the _Han Solo 5000_ but it’s still his race. His smile is plastered on all of the advertisements and his name is still a footnote in all of the disclaimers. After Chewbacca left to raise a family and Leia announced she was pregnant, Han felt the final cord binding him to his smuggler career snap. The races were a good change of pace and a decision he made on his own. He put his knowledge of ships and challenges to profitable use and started hosting above-the-board racing competitions for aspiring pilots and retired thieves alike.

This new legitimate businessman Han Solo looks like the Han Solo that Malcolm Reynolds is familiar with but he’s still not entirely convinced the life of war and politics hasn’t changed his friend. So when Han Solo declines a handful of reputable dining establishments in favor of watching the races from an ancient holoprojector inside the Falcon, Mal’s shoulders visibly loosen and he exhales a breath he’s been holding since they landed. Only a ruggedly handsome scoundrel would prefer the comfort of his rusty old tugboat to a four-star open bar. Mal smiles at the thought of watching the race from his own ship and it pains him a little. There’s a lot at stake for this race.

Han kicks some domestic debris off the curved bench seat of the Falcon’s lounge and turns on the race, then takes a seat. Mal drapes his coat across a crate and follows suit, joining the greying Corellian for the live entertainment. The colors of the hologram are muted, the technology aboard the Falcon showing its age but both men can clearly make out the female Drall announcer commenting on the starting lineup. There are dozens of pilots competing in today’s race and, judging from the ships on the starting line, Mal concludes that Greer’s got her work cut out for her _without_ the electrical malfunction.

“She’s got this,” Han reassures no one in particular while retrieving a half-empty bottle of Corellian brandy and two tumblers from under the bench. He pours himself a glass and takes a long drink before setting the bottle on Mal’s side of the table. “She’s the best.”

Mal eyes the man as he fills his own glass. “I had no doubt until you started drinking.”

Han flashes him a judgmental look. “I’m not concerned about her piloting. I’m worried about her ship blowing up in what could be her last race.”

Mal mouths the word ‘oh’ before taking his own fortifying gulp. He sets the tumbler on the table. “Kaylee’s got this. She’s the best.”

Han snorts. “I don’t doubt that. You’re still around.” The words are sharper than the smuggler intends, so he sighs and takes another drink. “Speaking of which: where’s Zoe?”

Mal sighs. “Kicked her off the ship.”

Han’s spine straightens and his face convulses in shock. “You didn’t!”

“I didn’t,” Mal defends quickly. “We found her someplace nice to raise Emma for a while. The ship’s no place to raise a kid. All the shootin’ and swearin’ and illicit food…” 

They laugh at the concept of illicit food mostly to refrain from being angry. It’s hard to see the world as kind when you’re smuggling goods like ration packs and medical supplies to starving planets because their governments can’t make nice.

“What’s it like,” Mal asks, quiet and reflective. His eyes aren’t focused on anything in particular in the hologram. “Winning the war? Liberating Kashyyyk--”

“No. We’re not starting that,” Han interrupts with a wagging finger. “I don’t have enough alcohol.” He frowns and bobs his head from side to side, struggling to string together a set of encouraging words. It’s not his strong point. “Look, this isn’t me. Do I look like the kind of guy that overthrows a tyrannical regime and gets all shinied up for political dances or balls or whatever they do in those conference rooms? No. I’m the guy that lives day to day by the seat of his pants, flying his ship around the galaxy, dodging debt collectors and exes.

“But you!” Han jabs a thick finger in Mal’s bicep, his chest too guarded by folded arms to poke. “The Rebellion wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for kids like you sticking it to the Empire. You did this. You won the war.”

Mal nods in reluctant agreement for a moment before his gaze returns to the present. He grins at the Corellian’s paternal pep-talk. “The senator’s rubbed off on you. _Nǐhǎo ma_ , old friend?”

“Tired,” Han huffs, returning to his drink and slouching now that he’s said his piece. “Now pipe down, the race is starting.”

+

Greer wins the race but that’s expected.

It's roughly a 5,000 kilometer flight through a set of gates situated at low orbit around Corellia, hence the name. With atmospheric drag, the race takes about four hours. In low orbit, it feels much faster and heart racing. The ships take off from the Coronet City starport, where ground crews stand by and monitor their pilots. Most of the fanfare revolves around favored ships leaving atmo in ornate displays of prowess; pilots leaving vapor trails of team colors and occasional messages on their exodus.

Greer isn't one for fanfare but she's not above piercing a competitor’s art repeatedly with her nose cone. Once a pilot's in low orbit they can't see their handwork anymore and it gives the commentators something to chew on for the crowd.

The race starts and ships, mostly luxury vessels and small snubfighters, rush out of the first gate. Greer’s small purple A-Wing is easily visible as a fan favorite, lancing through the first few gates with ease.

Mal gets anxious at the 3,000 km gate, the most opportune time to trigger their trap and lag behind. It’s a few hours in and Han has fallen asleep, only to be shaken awake by his anxious companion. 

Greer passes the 4,000 km mark before Mal sits forward, fixated on the numbers flying through the large empty space before him. If something went wrong, there's no time now to fake an injury. It's all or nothing and his heart sinks.

And then her ship is bathed in a bright flash of light. It’s pulled from the track so fast that the second and third place racers rocket past her. The Drall commentator's voice raises three octaves into shrill excitement and Mal finds a sweaty hand clamp unconsciously on his thigh above the knee. Mal yelps in surprise but Han's attention is rapt on his pilot, muttering encouragements under his breath.

The fourth place pilot screams past Greer as her ship systems roar back to life. Greer kicks the thrusters hard and leaps back into the race, not a second to spare.

Reeling with genuine dread that their timing was off, Mal plants his hand on Han’s opposing shoulder and squeezes anxiously. The two huddle together, the table the only thing preventing them from jumping into the middle of the projection for a better look.

The purple snubfighter edges past the third place Interceptor seconds before they cross the finish line and both men find themselves driven to their feet yelling. Excitement and relief wash over them and they hoot at the tiny A-Wing hovering before them. Instant replays of the Headhunter in first play on a loop around them as they hug and shake each other in excitement. For a heartbeat, their lips meet in an enthusiastic kiss.

They separate just as quickly, muttering excuses and avoiding the admission of eye contact. Mal distances himself from the moment by stretching his arm awkwardly above his head and scratching his scalp while Han coughs and turns up the den’s lights.

Tentatively, they sit back down and stare at each other across the game table.

“Well, that was exciting,” Han offers, cringing at his own poor choice in words.

Mal’s lips press into a rigid facsimile of a smile and he nods. “Not bad. The race, I mean. Different.”

“Right. The race. I told you it’d be good.” 

There's a lingering twinkle in Han’s warm brown eyes that soothes the tension in the room without being overtly forward. Mal tilts his head to see if it’s just the light. “Never doubted it.”

“Time to collect?”

Mal finishes his brandy. “Time to collect.”

+

Cam droids hover around the winners' podium as medals are awarded to their champions. First place begins to weep with joy and a wookie dressed in matching livery dumps a celebratory vat of ice and liquid on the unsuspecting winner with additional fanfare. No one catches Greer stepping off the third place alter and slipping into the VIP crowd.

Her ground crew has been harried with the immediate task of combing her ship for malfunctions, the real reason Kaylee to stayed planetside without the captains. Assured no future complications will arise, Kaylee hunts down her hero.

Kaylee assaults Greer with an ecstatic hug and wail of primal glee before before handing over the datapad detailing their winnings. Greer is exhausted, visibly drained from the physical demand of accelerated flight but she smiles warmly despite. Han and Mal join them in time to witness Greer signing over the deed to a Firefly-class transport ship to one Kaylee Frye.

“Captain Reynolds,” Han declares as he witnesses the transaction. He taps Greer’s elbow with a bottle of water, discreetly assisting the recovery from her Bloodburn distress. “I believe you’ve been had.”

“Naw,” Mal shakes his head, face split ear to ear by a grin. Kaylee beams and hands him the datapad. “You’ve confused Kaylee here with one of them Corellians I hear so much about.”

Greer downs the bottle of water and folds her arms across her chest, cocking her head at Mal. “You mean one of those Corellians who are tax exempt on gambling winnings?”

Mal pauses, considering. The numbers click through his mental abacus and he scratches his chin. “So. How does one attain Corellian citizenship these days?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, cap’n,” Kaylee adds merrily, “The bet you placed on Greer will cover fuel and license fees.”

“And repairs to my ship. And good food. And a few rounds,” Greer adds.

Mal extends a hand to stall the conversation. “The bet _I_ placed?”

“Certainly wasn’t _me_. Ground crew ain’t allowed to bet. Conflict of interest.” Kaylee bats her eyelashes. 

“And it wasn’t me or Han. Conflict of interest.” Greer high-fives her partner in crime.

Han claps Mal on the shoulder. “Been had.”

Mal takes a steadying breath, straightening his spine and relaxing his shoulders. There really was a lot more riding on this race than he’d predicted. His face splits with a relenting grin. “Well then. It appears I owe my completely trustworthy crew dinner.”

Kaylee perks up. “And dancing.”

“...and dancing,” the captain reluctantly adds.

“Have you heard of the Corellian Dancing competition?” Han grins ferociously. “Has a men’s division. High stakes betting.”

Mal shakes his head. Sometimes, a wise man recognizes the enemy’s stacked the deck and politely declines further engagements. 

Sometimes.

But maybe not today.

**Author's Note:**

> OH BOY.
> 
> The conversational Chinese was lifted from _Rachel's Pages: Mandarin phrases for Firefly fans_ (http://www.jiawen.net/phrases.html). The Han Solo 5000 and Greer Sonnel are lifted from Claudia Gray's _Star Wars: Bloodline_ , which I highly recommend. 
> 
> If you haven't read the novel, Greer Sonnel has Bloodburn -- a chronic illness in Star Wars that afflicts pilots, basically boiling their blood the faster they go. In the novel, she gives up a career with Han Solo's race team to be Leia's personal aide (because of her illness) and it's scandalous (because her illness is a secret). 
> 
> I believe Chewbacca winds up staying on Kashyyyk after the events of _Aftermath_. And I'm pretty sure Han still has the _Falcon_ in _Bloodline_ but it wouldn't be the first time I bent the rules to make a crossover work.
> 
> Also, it's been about a decade since I read the _Firefly_ comics, but I'm _pretty sure_ Mal's crew is down to Kaylee and Mal, since I vaguely recall some falling out with Jayne, Simon and River leaving for a spin-off series, and Zoe being super pregnant with Emma.
> 
> I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT.


End file.
